Green eyes like the serpent’s scales,
White smiles like the north’n sweet-gale,
He speaks with Swan-like grace and chime,
And I, like Leda, sip slowly his words like summer wine.

A touch upon the lip,
A resonance crawls across my consciousness -
Like a spider weaving its gossamer threads
Around the zephyr-lily’s stem,
Between its white palm-like stretch of petals,
And in to the flower – where the bumble bee nestles.

Gently his fingers strum upon my heartstrings,
Plucking at the tuned wings,
As I dance to the fool’s din,
Slowly stripping away the clothes I like to dress my soul in.